Til Human Voices Wake Us
by Gariand
Summary: Crying doesn’t make you any less of a man, Kyle. And it doesn’t make you any less logical; a lot of things aren’t logical or don’t make sense. But d’you know what, Kyle? Humans can’t be entirely logical; we’re not perfect."


**Til Human Voices Wake Us**

"I don't want to cry, Kenny."

It was a simple enough sentence, with a simple enough meaning, and yet it took an insane amount of effort to let those words pass his lips. Staring into space, with eyes that threatened tears that were held back by the dam that was Pure Resolve, Kyle Broflovski raised himself from the pew.

"I need to go, I can't take it anymore."

With the eyes of the congregation that followed his every step down the aisle upon him, Kyle just kept walking, partially wondering what their minds would respond to his action. Would they pity him, sympathising with his inability to remain at such a traumatic event? Would they consider him an uncaring asshole, who was unable to stay present at his best friend's funeral? Kyle could honestly answer that he could care less at the opinions of the masses; after all, what the hell did they know about Stan? How the hell could they even begin to comprehend just what Kyle was feeling?

Kyle pushed open the church door, immediately patting his pocket for cigarettes. Oh lord, he knew they were a terrible habit, but as much of a cliché as it was, he needed them.

Allowing his own breathing in of the fumes to soothe him and then the rush of nicotine flood his brain, Kyle could think clearly, partly which he despised. Namely because a sudden rush of overwhelming guilt flooded his senses.

Oh, he had felt guilty before; sitting in the church listening to Father Maxi preach "the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away" and making out Stan to be some Saint, like every unfeeling, ignorant priest in the world. He had dragged on at length about Stan's "hard working nature" and "ability to find the good in everything". It was bullshit, naturally. The same lines that Kyle had heard so often at Kenny's many funerals before. The priest probably kept flashcards in the pulpit; endless lines of "the sun shines out of this guy's every orifice" to yak on about after they had passed on, only to collect his fee yet again from the family who truly believed all that shit.

Kyle knew it; Stan was a douchebag. A whiny, lunk-headed, naive douchebag. But yet again, Kyle could say honestly that he didn't care about this triviality; at least Stan had been _his _douchebag.

And it was Kyle's fault that this douchebag was laying in his coffin, dressed in the sort of tuxedo that while soul and body connected, the black-haired young man would squirm and whine in until the cows came home whilst forced to wear it.

"_Dude, I look like a total prick in this."_

Ah yes, prom night. Where Stan's tux had been complimented by his midnight blue bow tie and Wendy, dressed in the same exact shade and hanging off his arm. At least, she was hanging off it when not fussing over his appearance.

"_Jesus, Stan, will you stand still! You're going to mess up the ruffles!"_

"_I. Look. Like. A. Prick."_

"_Oh come on, you crybaby. It's not all bad. Look at Kyle! He's not having a tantrum simply because he's looking smart for a change."_

Kyle had worn his tuxedo like a second skin; the bottle green shade of the fabric suiting his eyes perfectly, and despite his not having a date at the beginning of prom night, he had obtained at least five phone numbers by the end of curfew.

Best night of their lives seemed so far away now, the twitching, grumbling Stan of then replaced by a cold corpse of today, and the calm, collected Kyle had become a mere shadow of himself. A chain smoking, emotionless shadow.

He flicked his cigarette end towards a nearby gravestone, before pulling out yet another one, still pondering the tuxedo that shrouded the body in the church; if Kyle had been in charge of the preparations, he would have picked out something that Stan actually enjoyed wearing. There was no doubt that his soul would be pissed off having to wear "this monstrosity, this shackle created by women for us all to look alike and feel like a prick while wearing" for all eternity.

And despite it all, despite all the pain that had come from this event; from the incident, to anxious hours of waiting in the hospital, to the ten packs of cigarettes that he had purchased since, and finally to his current inhale and exhale of whatever crap they filled those cancer sticks with, Kyle could not shed a tear. Nothing.

His parents, along with the Marshes, Kenny and whoever else in the hick town who actually gave a damn believed that Kyle was simply too traumatised to cry. Understandably, really. After all, anyone who knew them could see just how close they were. It was very unlikely that there would be two kindred souls such as them.

They had been quite the dynamic duo; Kyle, the Jewish, frizzy-haired bookworm, and Stan as a complete and utter football nerd. Whilst Kyle could rattle off names and dates and facts to his heart's content, Stan was able to bore someone to tears with his expertise on tactics and scores from past games. And yet in their differences, there was something that clicked, something that meshed and magically worked between the two. And despite their differences only increasing as they grew older, both physically and mentally, they were still like two peas in a pod, albeit one lanky, Jewfro-sporting , studious pea alongside his shorter, yet burly, broad shouldered compadre.

And yes, they had had their moments; neither were without fault 100% of the time. Kyle was stubborn and easily angered, whilst Stan was defensive and always considered himself right in a situation. But they never lasted long. Never. Arguments between the two were few, and neither could hold a grudge against the other. Even when they tried.

"_Kyle, I could never stay mad at you. You're my best friend, ya know? The guy who's got my back, my second. We're like... we're like "The Three Amigos", "The Three Stooges", "The Three Musketeers"... except with only two of us."_

"_Stan, why didn't you just pick a double act for your simile?"_

"_I could have, but you're good enough for two people, so it works."_

"_Smarmy bastard. Good line though, except it sounds kinda gay."_

"_I don't think I'd mind being gay too much... not if I was gay with you."_

"_In your dreams."_

"_Oh they are, Kyle... very sexual ones at that."_

"_You'll have to go into great detail about these; I can't imagine going through life without a blow by blow account... Jesus Christ, that sounded wrong."_

The banter could carry on for hours, Stan trying his utmost to wind Kyle up to the point of near insanity, while Kyle attempted to deflect these while simultaneously holding himself back from stabbing Stan with the nearest pointy object to hand. But that was all that it was; banter. Even when making up from a fight, it had been less of a fight and more of their boyish piss-taking that had gotten out of hand.

"Goddamnit, Stan. Goddamnit all to hell!"

Kyle kicked the wall of the church in frustration, wincing in pain and cursing loudly at the sky. His cheeks became more and more red as time went by, and his anger simply grew and grew. At Stan, at himself, at whatever fucking thing had brought on Stan's untimely death.

"He was 24, for fuck's sake!"

Yes, 24, having just finished a degree, on line for a job in a respectable firm, engaged to me married to the childhood sweetheart that was Wendy Testaburger. Kyle had seen her, sobbing her heart out in the church, all the while twisting the ring around her finger, as if it could somehow make everything all right again.

No, it couldn't. Twiddling a ring couldn't bring Stan back, holding some fancy ass funeral wasn't going to bring Stan back, and sure as hell crying was only going to yield the same results as the former two.

No, Kyle couldn't cry; what good would it do anyway?

"_**It would make you feel better, for a start."**_

Kyle jumped in surprise, dropping the smouldering butt of his cigarette to the floor. He could have been certain that he had heard something, like trying to shout through glass, although a quick scan of the surrounding area reminded him just how alone he was.

Writing it off as a moment of madness in his grief, Kyle tried to salvage the cigarette that he had dropped, making a mental note to get some more on the way back from the funeral.

"_**And, dude, seriously, I expected better from you. Smoking? It ain't like you."**_

Ok, he had definitely heard that. Snapping up from his bending position, Kyle immediately regretted it, feeling the bruises on his torso throb painfully. Rubbing the offending areas, he once again glanced all around him.

"Stop playing tricks on me!" he called, becoming more and more pissed off. It was some kids, some stupid kids trying to mess with his head and hiding in the bushes. That must be what it was. After all, for one, Kyle was not insane enough to hear voices in his head, and where else could that voice have come from?

"_**From me, you idiot, that's who."**_

It was then that the disembodied voice had decided to make himself known. Kyle literally fell to the paved floor outside the church in utter shock, disbelief and horror written across his face.

Oh how he wished that it was all some kind of sick dream, that with a click of his fingers he would wake up, back to his lonely apartment, back to his dead-end job, back to what he considered reality. Kyle wished with all his heart that he had been drinking, or that he had been smoking something stronger than mere tobacco, so that he could write it off as one of those excuses. But as he landed painfully on the church path, his heart beating at rate he couldn't even comprehend, his fearful eyes could only take in what they saw; Stan Marsh, holding out his hand to help Kyle back up.

"Oh shit," he mumbled. "I _am _insane."

"_**You're not insane, Kyle." **_

Kyle did not take the hand that he was offered, instead scrambling to his feet in an ungainly fashion, backing away from a hurt-looking Sta...

"NO!" Kyle cried out as if in pain. "No fucking way! No!" He pointed a shaking finger, all the while backing away. "You can't be... you're dea... I saw you DIE!"

The figure that looked identical to Stan Marsh (Kyle simply could not call him "Stan" himself) shrugged his shoulders. "I did die... but I'm here too. If that makes sense."

"It certainly fucking doesn't," hissed Kyle, grabbing his locks of hair in frustration, as if trying to shake the image from his mind. He glanced to and fro from the ethereal Stan figure, as if hoping it would disappear from view. This couldn't be happening, it could NOT be happening.

"_**Kyle..."**_

"Don't fucking speak to me!" Kyle would not let his finger stray from pointing at the person stood before him, scrambling back along the church wall before he found a bench upon which he collapsed into, paralysed with shock. "I was there, I was there! I saw it happen! I saw you!"

And with a twinge of guilt, Kyle knew that he hadn't just seen Stan's untimely demise, but he had caused it as well.

It had been a singularly normal day, or what would constitute as normal for the residents of South Park. In fact, Kyle could have gone to say it was a cliché of the typical "normal" day; sun shining, birds twittering, children eagerly running off to school and Mr Garrison already hassling Mexicans. To anybody in the small town, it would seem that nothing could go wrong.

Of course, anybody who is stupid enough to even allow that thought to cross their mind is bound to eat their words by the end of the day.

Even as Kyle stared at the ghostly form of Stan before him, maybe it was the knock to the head, or maybe it was all the meds, but he couldn't even remember just why it all played out like it did. One moment was sheer enjoyment driving back to their birthplace, and the next they had had one of their rare spats. Even if Kyle couldn't remember just what they had argued about, it was petty; something meaningless and stupid, something that wouldn't matter, and something that had caused Stan to take his eyes from the road for less than a second.

Something that Kyle could never forgive himself for.

The next few seconds were a hazy mess of sparks flying, coupled with background noises of grinding metal and screams, a flash of pain and the encompassing shroud of unconsciousness.

Oh, how he wished he could have stayed in that state; to be unable to feel pain or see the damage that had been done, but sweet coma ejected him mere minutes after it had claimed him, roused by a human voice that would not let him rest. Kyle's eyes had opened to find dashboard in his vision, and in trying to turn his head slightly, he let out an audible moan that had caught the attention of the person trying to gain a response from him.

"_Hey, hey there. You awake? It's alright, everything's going to be alright, kid."_

Kyle tried to lean back into his seat to gain a proper view of the person speaking to him, but was held back by a crippling pang in his chest, and he let out a yelp of pain.

"_Hey, kid, don't try and move. You're in an accident... now I ain't no doctor, but I suggest you just sit tight until the meds get here, 'kay?" _There was a small pause, before they continued speaking to him. _"Hey, I think I know you; you're the Broflovski kid? Kyle, right?"_

Kyle had enough sense to say a small _"Yeah"_ in response, before muttering _"Stan... Stan... is he okay?"_

There was no answer.

"_Please, just... just tell me...."_

The silence was punctuated only by a distant sound of sirens, and Kyle, even in his less than fully functional state, was becoming more and more annoyed with the person who simply would not answer him.

It seemed like an eternity until, _"I think he's... he's pretty banged up, Kyle... but...."_

That was it. Ignoring the horrible throbbing that pierced through his chest, Kyle pushed himself away from the dashboard back into the car seat, much to the horror of the guy talking to him, and quickly looking towards Stan, a sight that nearly made him pass out again.

Someone had t-boned into the car at the crossroads; the driver of the other vehicle was being comforted by yet another of South Park's citizens who Kyle noticed around, yet never really talked to. But it was the front of this car that made Kyle's bruised stomach turn. The front had dug into the driver's side of Stan's car. It was appalling... the mess, the blood... the blood....

"_Oh my god,"_ Kyle had whispered.

He reached out his arm as if to touch the unconscious Stan, but was stopped by a low mutter.

"_I don't think you should touch him, Kyle. What with all the possibilities of spinal injuries and such. Just sit tight, kid."_

It was an agonising few minutes that Kyle could only sit helplessly in his seat in the car, both feeling dizzy and sick, a dull pain echoing through his body, and having to see his best friend laying beside him, blood flowing from an unseen wound, not stirring despite the amount of times Kyle called out his name.

"_Stan... please... wake up, Stan...."_

Even the arrival of the ambulances hadn't eased Kyle's worries. They had to cut through the car just to get to the both of them, and despite all that they had done to try and rouse the still unconscious Stan, he remained limp and unmoving for the remainder of the time that Kyle saw him.

What happened next was more of a blur for Kyle; his sense of feeling had been shattered, and he had been wheeled in a similar fashion to one of the remaining ambulances. All the time, his paramedic taking blood pressure, shining lights into his eyes and asking questions. To which Kyle had not responded, merely asking again and again, _"Stan... how's Stan?"_

They had shaken their heads and carried on running their tests, while he had lain there, feeling sick and disorientated, that he did not even remember arriving at the hospital.

"_Stan!"_ he had cried hoarsely_. "Stan!"_ And yet still they did not answer. The monotonous activity of questioning, prodding and injecting carried on, his pleas unanswered. Time could not be calculated, and it was as he lay in one of the Emergency Room cubicles, curtains drawn around his bed that a low voice and three shadows on the thin vomit-green drapes disturbed his indistinct dozing in one of the gurneys.

"_Mr and Mrs Broflovski?"_ Kyle heard the doctor say from behind the curtains. And as if his mother's large silhouette wasn't enough to give her identity away to him, her frantic voice confirmed it. Kyle had been wondering just how long it would take them to get here.

"_Is he alright? Is my Kyle alright?"_

The shadowed head of the doctor nodded, but only slightly. _"I'm afraid he's in some pretty bad shape. Mostly a bit of bruising and cuts that we've patched up, nothing too serious, but we're just waiting back on some chest x-rays; we believe he's got a couple of fractured ribs. Plus, minor head trauma, knocked unconscious at the scene...."_ there was a sound of flipping pages, _"...he seems slightly disoriented, possible minor concussion, so we're planning on moving him to one of the wards and keeping him in overnight for observation, but he should make a full recovery in no time, Mrs Broflovski."_

A sigh of relief could be heard from his parents.

"_Can we see him then, doctor?"_ Kyle heard his father say.

"_You can in a minute, I'm afraid I have some rather bad news to impart though. The young man that was in the car with Kyle, Stan Marsh?"_

Kyle immediately started listening extremely closely, raising his head slightly from the pillow.

"_Yes, we know him. He and Kyle were heading back here to visit us and the Marshes,"_ Gerald Broflovski muttered hollowly. "_Is he alright? Are Sharon and Randy here as well?"_

"_I'm afraid that Stan Marsh passed away not too long ago. His heart stopped and we couldn't revive him. His parents are with him now."_ Kyle felt like he had been forced to go through the accident yet again; the sheer brunt of the news hit him hard, and he stiffened in shock. With suddenly dry mouth and thumping heart, he felt choked sobs begin to force their way up his throat, and with terrific force, he swallowed them back down, still straining to hear what was being said, and yet simultaneously not wishing to hear any more.

"_Oh god... how awfu... oh god...."_

"_Oh lord, poor Stanley... oh, Gerald, how on earth are we supposed to tell Kyle?"_

They were crying, Kyle could hear it. His head fell into his hands, and as much as tears threatened to fill and burst from his eyes, it would not come. For some reason, Kyle would not let it flow.

"_I'm guessing they were close?"_

"_They were like brothers...."_

Brothers... Stan, his brother, companion, amigo, cohort, comrade, _friend... _no, no it couldn't happen. Stan could not... Stan didn't deserve... no, no, NO.

"_I had assumed so; he has been asking after Mr Marsh since he was brought in...."_

The memories flashed through Kyle's mind; Stan, rescuing him from the brink of death more times than he could remember; Stan, playing sports beside him, whether it be baseball, football, basketball; Stan, doing his homework right before class, as Kyle would rattle off the answers to him; Stan, at Kyle's bar mitzvah, getting drunker, and dancing more than any of the other guests; Stan, standing next to him, diploma in hand, mortarboard askew as they posed for pictures taken by proud fathers and blubbing mothers.

And here they were now, further away than they had ever been before, across the line that was vitality and mortality. Stan had already finished the race, crossed the line, and Kyle was the one left behind.

They had come through the curtains, finding Kyle holding his head as if trying to contain all that had occurred. They had enveloped their arms around him, taking care not to aggravate any damaged area of his body as he sat in silence. They told him just how scared they had been to receive the phone call from the hospital, and just how happy they were that he was okay. They held his hand and tried to make small talk, and men in white and green flitted to and fro, discussing charts and x-rays and meds. And as the hours dragged on, they had left reluctantly, promising to return as early as possible the next day with Ike and a fresh change of clothes and take him home.

And through it all, it was them who cried. Not Kyle.

"_**Why can't you cry, Kyle?"**_

The voice of Stan infiltrated the buzzing mind of Kyle Broflovski, and he snapped back to the present, images of the "incident" fading into the background.

"_**Why can't you cry?"**_

The world and his wife had insinuated this question to him at least some point since; but crying simply wasn't what Kyle did. He could think of many things to do more worthwhile than sobbing his eyes out. He had seen it a lot from many others, at the slightest sign of misery they would cry, long and hard until they had no more tears left in them. His mother was a terrible offender of this; any slightly romantic or sad movie could set her off, and Kyle would roll his eyes at her. But truthfully, Kyle could not see what it would achieve.

And instead of ignoring the question, for the first time in days, Kyle actually answered something properly, instead of changing the subject or ignoring it completely as had been his defence mechanism.

"What does it achieve? It isn't logical, and to be honest it's just selfish. It's like saying 'I'm really upset, but I'm going to make it public so everyone else knows I'm upset'. It just... It's lame, really."

Kyle had not looked up at all while saying it, and suddenly a strange sensation, like water tickling his chin, moved his face upwards. There was no way that Kyle could deny it; it had to be Stan, it just had to be; the bright flash of blue irises that were situated in the center of his almond shaped eyes were simply and utterly...

"Stan... oh my god, oh my god..."

Kyle tried to clutch at the arm that held his face, but it fell through, like a hot knife through butter. But he just kept trying to grasp it, like a thirsty man would struggle for water, and yet he was no more successful than trying to keep water in cupped hands.

"Stan... it's... it's really..?"

"_**You know, Kyle, there are plenty of things that aren't logical; friendship, for one. Say you have best friends, who love each other more than they love themselves. They have each others' backs, they do everything together. Then say one friend is suddenly out of the picture. How do you think the remaining friend would feel? Was it logical getting into that friendship if there was so much to lose from it?**_

"_**Then let's talk about love; any kind of love. Love for parents, siblings, partners and friends. Is it really worth loving someone when there is so much hurt if the person of that love is suddenly taken from you? Was it logical to put yourself in the position of vulnerabitily?"**_

"Stan, I...."

"_**What about cars? Are they logical? They have the ability to kill, Kyle. Is it really logical to ride around in these deathtraps, when it would be safer if everyone got from A to B by walking?"**_

Kyle knew what Stan was doing; the infamous "I will show you just how wrong you are by using your own words against you" technique. He had perfected it during their ventures as kids, exposing whatever stupidity had occurred in the particular event of the moment. And now... it felt almost abnormal for Kyle to feel the full effects of it. Stan's comparison of cars as "deathtraps" made his eyes sting, and yet he still couldn't allow himself to cry.

"_**Crying doesn't make you any less of a man, Kyle. And it doesn't make you any less logical; a lot of things aren't logical or don't make sense. But d'you know what, Kyle? Humans can't be entirely logical; we're not perfect, and we all get scared or frustrated or upset at things. Wouldn't it be logical to cut out all emotion so that we don't feel all these bad things?"**_

The ghostly hand lay upon Kyle's shoulder, connected to a figure that smiled at him, and even upon the translucent cheek shone a lucid tear. One that Kyle could not wipe away, like the ones that had been shed by the young Stanley Marsh in all their years together; the incessant break-ups with Wendy, the beatings from his sister, his sprained ankle at eighteen that cost his football team the final game of the league. Oh yes, Stan had tried to bear it "like a man", but Kyle reckoned he was the only one who could see the tears of frustration and humiliation that Stan had sparingly allowed himself to shed.

"_So stupid... so fucking stupid."_

"_Come on, Stan. Nobody blames you for it...."_

"_But I blame myself, Kyle... If I hadn't... If only I... we could have won the cup, Kyle, we could... SHOULD have won it! And I let everyone down...."_

Nothing that Kyle or anybody had said could pull Stan out of his slump, until one day Stan had pulled himself from his brush with self-pity and asked Kyle to go to the park to shoot some hoops.

"_But Stan... just yesterday, I mean... are you sure you're okay now? You seemed very...."_

But the burly young man had waved off Kyle's concerns with a flick of his wrist.

"_Eh, I was pissed off. I just needed a little time to be pissed off, is all. But I'm done being pissed off now, so come on; HOOPS!"_

And despite the younger Kyle being pleased that his best friend had returned to his normal self, he couldn't help but be curious about his actions; why had Stan wasted that time moping over it instead of simply moving on from it. Had Stan's morose behaviour somehow turned back the clocks so he could alleviate his mistake? Nope, of course not. It had done nothing but severely annoy everyone around him for a few days, and thoroughly wasted that period of time being a complete emo rather than the fun-loving douchebag that Stan normally was.

"_**Huh, very charming, Kyle. I have to say, adding 'fun-loving' to the start of 'douchebag' isn't getting you off the hook that easily. I owe you at least a month's worth of poltergeist activity for that."**_

Stan's quips did nothing to Kyle's downcast mood, as he still reached for the silvery-glow of his arm, longing for one last touch.

"Please do, Stan... don't leave me...."

Stan sighed, a sorrowful look plastered upon translucent cheeks.

"_**Kyle, don't you see what's happening here? You need to grieve; let yourself cry, let yourself feel pain; there will always be someone to pick you up if you allow yourself to fall every now and again. Don't you see? You were there, weren't you? When I lost the game? I had to fall then; I was angry and frustrated, and I just needed the time to be angry and frustrated. We're human, Kyle, we're selfish, dishonest, hot-tempered, douchebag humans. And yes, be logical, but don't let your life be just geometric lines; lose some control, let your heart rule your head sometimes; grieve, yes, let yourself go, and give yourself the time you need to be human."**_

His cold, watery fingers brushed Kyle's stubbly chin. _**"Hey, you're not doing that Jewish thing where you don't shave if someone dies, are you?"**_

And at long last, Kyle found himself smiling. "Never. Definitely not for you, at least; you don't mean that much to me."

"_**Huh, charming," **_Stan snorted, and quickly grasped Kyle's wrist, pulling him up from the bench which he had been sitting on, and wrapping him tightly into a hug. **"**_**You see, Kyle? You'll be over this in no time."**_

"It won't stop it hurting now though, will it?" the redhead muttered, tears finally escaping from his eyelids.

"_**It certainly won't, and it'll probably keep hurting. But you can't keep it bottled up, even if it doesn't seem logical; no, it won't bring me back, and no, it won't reverse events. But it will ease your pain in time, even if it doesn't feel like it now."**_

The ghost peered up to the sky, letting his arms fall from Kyle's neck. _**"Look... I came back for a reason, and as clichéd as it sounds, I really can't hang around here much longer."**_

"Sounds like some sort of overused line in some lame ghost story," Kyle agreed, a small grin forming, before he realised just what he was doing. "Jesus, Stan, you always did this to me... always. Why... why...." His voice cracked, and he pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, trying in vain to carry on his sentiment.

"_**I have to go, Kyle. I don't belong here."**_

"I... I know... I just...."

"_**I know, I'm gonna miss you too."**_

"Some sendoff though, eh? You got the whole town in there spouting rubbish about how awesome you are."

"_**It's all rubbish though; I mean, everyone's remembered as being more awesome when they're dead. I mean, seriously, we're...what... in our twenties, and we still say 'awesome'!"**_

Kyle laughed, still not removing his fingers from the bridge of his nose, enjoying the moment that he could spend once again laughing and joking with Stan, feeling a slight weight still on his shoulder as the ghostly Stan squeezed it.

"H..hey, Stan?" Kyle was determined to keep him as long as possible, before the inevitable moment that his best friend would be lost forever. "How come... how come.. you can touch me, but I can't touch you?"

Stan's trademark bark-like chuckle was heard for the last time. _**"Well, if we're agreed that this is some cheesy, filled with clichés ghost story, then I'd say it was poor planning by the author."**_

Kyle laughed, finally opening his eyes and removing his fingers from pinching the bridge of his nose, expecting to see the Stan with his razor-sharp wit and guffawing laugh still stood before him, but was taken aback when he found himself alone in the churchyard. He stood up, treading on his dropped cigarette packet, searching for one last glimpse.

"Stan?"

Nothing.

"Stan?"

Still no answer.

"Stan, please... please..." Kyle immediately patted his pockets, his distressed self and hyperventilating lungs crying out for nicotine, before he retraced his steps, searching angrily for his tobacco.

"_**Kyle! What the fuck did I say? No smoking. I thought you would know better than that!"**_

Kyle's head instantly whipped around. "Stan?" he cried out yet again.

"_**Look, just quit smoking. I don't want to see you here for at least fifty years, do I make myself clear?"**_

"Stan?"

Again, silence penetrated the graveyard, and Kyle, holding a squashed packet of cigarettes, looked from them to the spot that he had been sure Stan's voice had come from, before crushing them again with his fist and hurling them as far away as he could.

He straightened his tie, brushed down his creased pants, and with one glance back through the stillness of the churchyard, made his way back inside the place of worship, a sense of ease coursing through him and fresh tears falling upon his black lapels.

* * *

**OMG, is this actually a fanfic from me???**

***GASPS***

**Yeah, I've had this half finished in my file for a year now, so I decided to finish it off and upload it. :D It's another one of "Gari tries to be deep" fanfics. ¬_¬ you would have thought I'd learnt my lesson by now. :D**

**Anywho, thanks for reading, and keep an eye out for updates!**

**Gari.**


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